The World has Turned and Left Me Here
by lostinwriting23
Summary: "Her hands started to tremble harder than they had been as she gripped the front of his sweater again. Stillness and silence had taken over her best friend, which were two things she'd almost never seen from him" insert scene for the season 1 finale. Fitzsimmon after Fury pulls them out of the ocean


**Hey there! Long time, no see! Well I clearly couldn't leave well enough alone and had to go and write a little filler scene for the finale between Fury hauling Fitzsimmons out of the ocean and him talking to Simmons in the decompression chamber. If there's anything wonky with it, lemme know and I'll try to fix it! I hope everyone is having a fantastic week and it continues to get better. I'd love to know what you think, so drop me a line:)**

**Thanks,**

**M**

**I'm just writing for fun, plain and simple. Just borrowing Joss Whedon's beautiful characters.  
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**XXX**

As soon as the his calloused hand closed tightly around her skinny wrist, Simmons knew there was no way that even Director Fury could drag two (admittedly slim, but still) waterlogged scientists from the ocean, especially when one was unconscious. Because he _was_ only unconscious. Anything else was unimaginable. The hand around his chest fisted in his sweater and she pressed her lips against the top of his head. _Hang on. Please, please hang on._

She wrestled her wrist from Fury's firm grip even as he redoubled his efforts to hold on.

"Simmons, you gotta-"

"Fitz," She gasped, trying to drag him closer to the Director, "Fitz first, he's-" She was cut off by an unexpected press of water as a wave closed over her head. Instinctively, she ducked under, trying not to gag on the saltwater that flooded her system and pressed up on Fitz's back, trying to keep him at least a bit above water. Panic washed over her afresh, as the water did and her head pounded out one thought. _Keep him alive. Keep him alive. _

But suddenly his weight disappeared from on top of her and she clawed her way to the surface again, shoulders and elbows screaming their protest at her movements and resurfaced, retching and blinking tears from her eyes in time to see Fitz's limp fingers catch gently on the lip of the helicopter as he was laid across the floor. Relief washed over her. At the same time, a strange calm took hold and for a moment, her body shut down, limbs refusing to tread water, eyes drifting shut, mind floating. _Fitz is out of danger. It's okay, he's going to be okay. Just a moment's rest..._

Fury's hand clamped around her wrist again and she was shaken from her stupor, coughing up yet another lungful of water. Swearing, the Director hauled her up level with the running board before supporting her torso with one arm, the other hand knotted in the belt loop at the back of her jeans. He lowered her, surprisingly gently to the floor of the helicopter but she was already scrambling to reach Fitz, who was being attended to by... no one. The two other agents were bustling for supplies as the Director leaned toward the pilot and shouted instructions. Everything sounded muddled and far away, Fitz was the only thing that was clear, tunnel vision so intense that all else faded to little more than black.

Terror seized her at the sight of his still frame, and she threw her exhausted body over his, checking first for his heartbeat and then breaths. Nothing. Her hands started to tremble harder than they had been as she gripped the front of his sweater again. Stillness and silence had taken over her best friend, which were two things she'd almost never seen from him. Even in sleep he would toss and turn all night, muttering about quantum mechanics or monkeys in space suits. There were several days (months worth of them, really) during their time at the Academy, after night long study sessions (which almost always ended in them falling asleep curled up together in her bed, too brain-dead or punch-drunk (or so they said) to move anywhere else and secretly comforted by one another's warm, solid presence) that she would wake up with a new bruise from Fitz's bony elbow or thinking about how to build a capuchin size space suit as the scientist himself snuffled and snuggled down further next to her, occasionally throwing an arm over his biochemist.

Still fighting for air herself, she pressed down on his chest, losing track of her compressions twice before deciding it was enough and bowing low over him, pressing her lips against his, trying to force his lungs to expand.

She paused after four breaths, the world tipping dangerously, though it had nothing to do with the helicopter's flight patterns. Black spots danced in her vision and all of her joints felt like they were trying to tear themselves apart. Dimly, she took stock of her symptoms, realizing that decompression sickness was setting in full force. The aching joints (every single point was a tiny flame, burning her from the inside out), exhaustion (though that would be common for anyone who had swum vertically for 90 feet, dragging a dead weight (her heart pulled painfully at her own poor word choice) behind them), difficulty breathing (though whether that was the bends or panic was anybody's guess) and an inability to see straight or keep her balance without heavy concentration (She was sure that the pressure of both the water and the explosion had popped at least one of her eardrums). If her calculations were correct, she had only a few minutes before her body shut down to recuperate.

But Fitz still wasn't breathing and nothing in the world mattered that much. She returned to the task at hand, praying that the weight she was putting behind hers wouldn't crack his ribs or sternum. Four more breathes, each becoming less regulated than the last. Her chest refused to expand again so she went back to compressions, feeling her body begin to tremble anew.

"Come on, Fitz, please," his heart squeezed sluggishly at her attention but refused to continue on its own, and her teeth chattered at the feeling, "Don't you dare leave me. Not after that." Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty. She bent low, four more breaths that she didn't have, the last one, sloppy as her fingers refused to function well enough to pinch his nose shut and her back searing with pain at her hunched angle. It wasn't a breath at all, just a desperate, fumbling press of her mouth over his, the one thing she hadn't been able to bring herself to do in the pod and may never get the chance to do again. His lips were cold and purple and it seemed impossible to imagine him, warm and awake and participating, pressing back, maybe a hand on her waist, another in her hair, smiling against her as he helped boost her onto a work table in the lab. The image sickened and heartened her in equal measure and she choked on panic and a desire so strong she didn't know what to do with herself.

Simmons fought to get up right again but the world was darkening, warping and twisting as she interlocked her fingers to start compressions, "Please Fitz, please. I'm sorry, please," she begged, sobs heaving her aching body, desperation clawing at her throat. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Her arms gave out as all focus was lost and everything went black. She collapsed on his chest and vaguely heard Fury and his men leaping to take over where she'd failed. Strong hands closed over her shoulders and started to drag her away but the last thing she felt before everything was swept away into cool nothingness was the single thump of a heart under her bruised hands.

_He's alive._


End file.
